Spanish Guitar
by Tsunderellah
Summary: I want to be your song. Not your typical batch of lemonade. For the lovely Maltese.


SUPER SPECIAL AWESOME AU! :3 No such thing as halfas, ghosts don't terrorize towns as publicly as they did, Vlad is NOT a rich cheesecake, (though he IS as alluring as one) and Daniel is all grown-up.

WARNING: This fic is NOT beta'd. So pardon any mistakes in grammar, spelling or word usage. If you would be so kind as to point them out, I'd appreciate it.

Oh, uhm. This is actually not a lemon. I don't write 'lemons' per say, but I can hint at playful seduction and...OHGAWD. Let's just call this a pseudo-lemon, okay? This is all my comfy space can allow me to write.

But if you squint, it might be a lemon. I dunno. *squeezes lemon into chrysanthemum tea*

**Special mention to Maltese, who wanted a little tangy zest in their PomPep. This pseudo-lemon is for you.**

Always with love,

~Tsunderella

* * *

_"Cierras tus ojos _  
_Y suenes que soy tuyo"_

_- Spanish Guitar, Toni Braxton_

_..._

* * *

The tingling of the bells alerted Danny to yet another customer. Quickly picking up a serving tray to tidy up broken remains of strawberry cheesecakes and empty mugs of coffee, he hastened to the back of the counter- cursing his luck at being the one of the few staff of the store to NOT catch the dreaded flu. The flu had claimed many employees, dooming them to one or two days of solitary confinement, usually accompanied by vats of home-made chicken noodle soup and fluffy duvet blankets. The twenty year old boy- having his iron immune system to thank- was stuck serving cranky, sniffling customers in a small, homely cakes shop in the middle of a dark snowy day.

It wouldn't take a genius to realise that the raven-haired boy was pissed beyond belief. He could make a list that could stretch from Amity to Antarctica about the things he hated about his current situation: that kid in table 12 kept making a mess of his food- (he's gonna have to clean that up), that clumsy customer who ordered a peach tart ended up spilling tea on themselves (OH! I'm so so sorry for the mess!), rude customers that just make his royal blue eyes darken slightly with anger... Customer service sucks. If the owner of the establishment didn't pay him as well as she does, he would have quit a long time ago.

Quickly plastering on a false smile, he faced the stranger before him.

He could tell that the stranger was not from the neighbourhood: the man had a white shirt on, neatly hugging along the contours of his chest. Slung haphazardly upon his shoulders was a black blazer, worn with use. The man's ocean eyes stared into Danny's baby blues, gaily sparkling in the light.

Danny automatically welcomed the stranger, wishing him a good evening- the two years he had worked as a waiter slash busboy had ingrained the greeting upon his lips.

The man pushed some stray silver locks behind his ear, never breaking eye contact. Flashing a quick grin, he ordered some Rooibos tea, along with a slice of black forest cake. Huh. Odd. His suroundings became blurred, eyes open but unseeing. Danny found himself losing concentration. The baritone lullaby of the man's voice lured him away from this smelly, damp reality into another realm. The man's voice was deep, powerful; awakening a secret coil of emotion slumbering within the pit of Danny's stomach. His vision flashed black and white. It took him a long while to realise that the man was waving his hand in front of his face. Oh. Oops. Quickly stuttering an apology, Danny averted his gaze and instead chose to focus on preparing the guest's order. The man laughed a quiet rumbling chuckle, revealing sets of pearl-white teeth, drawing contrast the rosy red colour of his lips and the flush of his alabaster skin.

Muttering an embarrassed sorry, Danny told the man that his order will be ready in a bit.

There was no way he could make tea in this situation. Danny felt himself watch the man as he walked towards one of the empty seats. The way he moved was seductive, enchanting. The man, who seemed to be of thirty-so age walked with a grace that made heads turn. The clicking of his dress shoes tapping against the cheap linoleum floors echoed throughout the small café -despite the noise of the crowd- captured, allured anyone who dares to look at the idol into fantastical daydreams of nights spent in the arms of a god.

Danny felt himself shiver in unknown delight.

The man found himself a seat in one of the plastic table and chair set near the corner of the room. It was only now that the raven-haired dreamer noticed that the man was carrying a guitar case. Had he been so distracted by the man's presence that he failed to notice that detail? Did this beautiful god play one of the most sensual instruments known to man- the guitar?

His curiosity was soon sated as the man placed the guitar case horizontally upon a chair and gently, as if the instrument was made of the most fragile materials, he lifted a guitar from the confines of its cloth receptacle. Slowly, teasingly the cloth casing came off. The man unzipped the casing and a guitar, smiling prettily at its master, became free from its fabric prison. The man laid the guitar across his thighs, like a beautiful mistress.

Danny noticed the man's slender fingers as he lightly tweaked one of the turning keys: gingerly, gently. The string tensed slightly, sighing quietly at the man's attentions. After a few turns, the man decided that he had tightened the string enough. Caressing the curve of his guitar, his hands traced the contours of its body, appreciating the smoothness of its wooden surface and how perfectly it fitted upon his lap.

Then slowly –perfectly- the man dragged his fingers across the strings. There was resistance among the metal ribbons- a cry to stop, lest they overload with emotion, with desire. A moment later, the slivers of coiled steel caved- the dominating touches too great. A moan emanated from the guitar, each one of the cords crying prettily to the silent song of his hand. A hand brushed against the neck, gripping tightly as fingers danced lightly upon the expanse of the fingerboard, making the beautiful moans of the instrument increase in pitch. The guitar was lost in ecstasy.

The foreplay was over, and the crescendo was fast approaching. Quickly, the man's fingers strummed faster, harder. The guitar sung louder, moaned prettier, wailed in delicious contentment. All of a sudden- it was over. The guitar came to a grand finale, pale fingers lingering upon the curves of the instrument. The strings quivered, languishing in the warmth, the attention, the love.

The sound of applause brought Danny back from his reverie. The man, smiling again, looked at him with those brilliant blue eyes. The boy shuddered, the earlier performance leaving him more than just aroused.

"So where's my tea?" The man had asked, the guitar still upon his lap- purring quietly as long, slender fingers began to caress its strings again. The boy gazed at the man, though his usual bright baby blues were glazed over with hidden thirst.

Oh, how Danny wanted to be that Spanish guitar.


End file.
